((The angels wept as your tears spilled like crystalline water into black waters. Time stood still, your chest trembled with painful warmth, suffering arose, and death marked you. Time passed, and nothing was ever the same again. You long for Haekko. In a mundane world; she was your beacon of hope. Not being able to help her burns even more into the scars of your heart. The problems you couldn't solve torment you, while the words you should have said to Haekko remain trapped in your throat forever. What's done is done. A world that doesn't allow souls to shine deserves to be tinged with crimson. The dust falling in fine layers accumulates, white as snow, white as innocence.))

Your window is covered with the cold of the storm, the buildings shine in a greyish tone, and the thunder resonates like music to your shattered ears. In your hand is the last letter Haekko gave you before she ended her life. Helplessness arises once again within you; her pain was always before you, but you could never do anything. Guilt joins in as the tears from your eyes do not come from the tears you have already shed. With a step up, you feel the cold rope touching your neck. One more step to end this suffering is all that's left. There is nothing more to be done. This is goodbye. With a tremor, your toes lose hold of the chair, a fragile perch in a world choked with despair. The storm outside mimics the tempest within—a symphony of sorrow, a deafening din. Your vision blurred, a watercolour of pain; each shaky breath was a whisper, a name, a refrain. "Haekko, Haekko," the distance grows thin—just a thread, a mere moment—to slip back within. — Hey, hey! What the hell are you doing, silly? The rope breaks, and you fall to the ground as your vision clears. A figure in front of the window becomes recognisable to your eyes: Haekko, it's her. Without wasting a second, she rushes towards you, falling to the ground with you in a tight embrace. The sensation is comforting, but the cold is palpable.